


want your bad romance

by amillionsmiles



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Humor, M/M, spin class
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 10:31:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12430941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/pseuds/amillionsmiles
Summary: Lance drags Keith to the spin class he's teaching.Keith falls mildly in love with one of the regulars.There are casualties.





	want your bad romance

**Author's Note:**

> I took my first spin class the other day and it basically went exactly like this except I didn't wipe out quite so dramatically and I didn't find love

“No, no, no,” Lance says, grabbing Keith’s water bottle out of his hands before he can set it down to claim his space.  “Newbies sit up front.”

“Lance.” Keith swipes at it, then decides it isn't worth his energy and crosses his arms instead.  “Don’t make this more unbearable than it already is.”

After weeks— _weeks_ of incessant begging and cajoling—he’s finally agreed to attend one of the spin classes Lance teaches at the local fitness studio.  Already, Keith has his doubts.  There’s a cultish air to the whole thing; Lance had to type in a code and lead him down a flight of stairs to get to the training room, for one, and in the dim lighting the rows of stationary bikes look like sentries.  Maybe they’re guarding the secret to a healthier, happier life, per _Euphoria’s_ tagline.  Who knows.

“Look, that way I can help you in case something goes wrong, okay?” Lance defends.

Keith raises an eyebrow.  “We’re going to be sitting. On stationary bikes. For 45 minutes.”

“It’s harder than you’re making it sound!  And keep your newbie wristband on!”

“I don’t understand why I have to wear this!  You already know I’m a newbie.”

“It’s not for _me,_ it’s for you,” says Lance.  “So you can identify the other newbies and bond with them.  Also, it glows in the dark.” 

Keith pulls at the rubber wristband, which, sure enough, glows a faint blue.  “It’s stupid,” he mutters.

Lance brings his palms together and down in a slight chopping motion.  “Okay, first rule of spin class? Positive attitude. Now, I’m going to go change into my costume, and you’re going to find a seat.”

“ _Costume?”_ Keith asks, but Lance has already zipped away.

Resigned, Keith trudges his way toward the front, where he picks one of the bikes on the left.  Other people have begun to trickle in.  The difference between the newcomers and the regulars is clear, not just from their wristbands; the newcomers loiter by the cubbies while the regulars make a beeline for the bikes, adjusting seat heights with practiced precision.

A short girl with a blonde ponytail and gray athletic t-shirt materializes by Keith’s side.

“Do you need help being clipped in?”

“What?”

“Do you need help being clipped in,” she repeats.

Keith conducts a rapid scan of the room.  There aren’t harnesses of any sort.

“I…don’t know what that is.”

“Your shoes,” the girl explains patiently, to her credit.  “Here, go ahead and sit on your bike.” 

There’s not much to argue here.  He’s out of his element enough as it is; the only thing to do is oblige.  So Keith gets into place, following her directions— _twist all the way right, that’ll adjust your resistance; okay, now put your left foot here and stand up—_

A clicking noise, and Keith’s left foot locks firmly in place, held by the spikes on the soles of the special shoes he had to change into.  His right foot follows suit. 

He has a brief moment of foreboding, like the sense of finality you get when the rollercoaster lapbar settles across your hips.  There’s no getting off this ride anymore, not until the bitter end.

And it’s then—right when both of Keith’s feet are stuck fast to the pedals—that The Man enters.

A cosmic chime sounds.  Keith forgets how to breathe.

The Man is six-foot-something of muscle, with a shoulder-to-waist ratio that should have its own annals in history, right next to the Golden Ratio or pi.  A white lock of hair dangles artfully over his forehead, stark against the rest of his black undercut.  He surveys the room, running a thumb along his jaw in thought, and maybe Keith would have done better in high school geometry if they’d studied things that actually made sense, like the planes of The Man’s face. 

The Man stretches his arms above his head and the fabric across his chest stretches, too.

The Man starts walking.

The Man picks a bike.

 _The_ bike.

_The bike right next to Keith._

“First time?” he asks, smiling as he bends to adjust the bike seat. 

Keith blinks, then glances at the bracelet glowing around his wrist.  _Words, Keith.  Use your words._

“Yeah.” 

The Man nods.  Finished with his adjustments, he grips the black metal handlebars and swings up onto his seat.  It’s a power move, made with powerful thighs.  Strong enough to—

Keith swallows.  “I’m Keith.”

“Shiro,” The Man says, extending a hand.  It’s a bit awkward to twist his torso and lean over to take it, especially with both his feet rooted in place, but Keith manages.  Shiro’s palm slides against his.  He has calluses near the top—maybe from lifting?  Immediately after their hands break contact, Keith tries to wipe his against his shorts as subtly as possible.  Damnit, he really should have worn his gloves today.

He’s already breaking a sweat and they haven’t even started exercising.

This is pathetic.

“You picked a good class for your first time,” Shiro says, bike wheels whirring as he gets started on some sort of pre-workout workout.  “Lance is one of my favorite trainers; he really knows how to keep the energy going.”

 _Fucking Lance._ How the hell had he neglected to mention someone like Shiro existed?  Not to mention attended his classes _weekly?_

“Uh, yeah.  Lance is—Lance is a really close friend of mine, actually.  He’s great.”

Of course, this is the exact moment Lance waltzes back into the room, wearing devil horns, angel wings, and a red cape.  _And_ compression shorts. 

Keith wants to shove all his earlier words back into his mouth.

“Allllll right everyone, I hope you’re clipped in and ready to rumble!” Lance calls in his announcer-voice, the same one he uses to obnoxiously narrate their Mario Kart games.  “This is our Halloween session, and you all know what that means: things are about to get _freaky._ ”

Lance punctuates this statement by flicking his cape behind him, arranging himself on the bike that’s front and center and straightening his headset.  He fiddles with the iPad on the table beside him.  On cue, the room darkens further, red mood lighting running along the ceiling, Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” starting up.  Overlaying it, Lance’s cheerful count: “Now keep the beat with your feet!  1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4—”

This is worse than the one time Keith took acid.

Beside him, Shiro says something, but it’s lost to the noise as Lance increases the music’s volume.

“What?” Keith strains.

“Enjoy the ride!” Shiro repeats, louder.

And _winks._

“Elbows out!  Now in!  Now out!” chants Lance.

Keith gulps and puts his head down, pedaling faster.

 

*

 

They’re halfway through Ke$ha’s “Cannibal” and Keith wants to die.

It’s like being in a club—same stench of sweat, same amount of strange bodies all moving to the beat.  The lights fade from red to pink to purple to blue, pulsing along with the music, and Keith is nowhere _near_ drunk enough to be doing this.  The sole redeeming factor is that, since he _is_ sober, he can fully appreciate the sight of Shiro’s Adam’s apple bobbing every time they take a water break.

That, and the glistening sheen of perspiration across Shiro’s forehead, wiped away by the snow-soft towels provided to each of them.  In the darkness, the motion looks almost erotic. 

If this were a club, Keith would down a shot and muster the courage to ask Shiro: _do you want to get out of here?_   But since they’re not in a club, he can only assume that the way to Shiro's heart is through sheer athletic prowess.  Balls to the wall, pedal to the metal.  So for every count Lance makes, Keith works his legs twice as fast, hunched over the handlebars with single-minded purpose.

His vigor does not go unnoticed.  Shiro glances over appreciatively.  From his vantage point, Lance looks surprised at Keith’s sudden fervor—and then he glances at the man cycling next to Keith.  Understanding dawns over his face, sly and almost feral.

“Great job, everyone!  Keep it up, just like that!”  As Lance speaks, he twists to the side, pulling something from the table.  A plastic Cupid’s bow and a foam arrow, which he nocks at Keith mockingly.

Keith glares.  It says: _I’m in the middle of something important and if you fuck it up with your bullshit, our friendship ends here._

Lance’s grin widens.

There are acts of poetic justice.  And then there are punishments that can only be wrought by the divine. 

Lance fires his shitty foam arrow and Keith whiplashes out of the way—in order to, what, _not_ catch feelings for the Adonis cycling next to him?  Too late for that.  In the process, his left foot jerks free of its clippings, but the pedals keep _going,_ too much momentum, and Keith topples forward, still attached by his right foot.  All of this as Tove Lo’s voice climbs higher and higher, belting: _keep playing my heartstrings faster and faster, you can be just what I want, my true disaster._

His face slams against the handlebars, the immediate gush of blood from his nose warm and messy, and then everything goes black.

Small mercies.

 

*

 

“Keith?  Keith?  Oh thank god, he’s alive.”

Keith wakes up flat on his back, wooden slats of the bench pressing against his shoulder blades.  They’re in the seating area where he’d changed shoes earlier; someone has done him the small kindness of sticking one of the orange ornamental pillows under his head.

Standing over him, Lance holds a crinkled piece of paper.

Keith squints.  “Is that—is that my _waiver form?”_

“I just had to make sure we weren’t going to be held liable!” Lance explains.  He points to Keith’s signature.  “You signed this so you can’t sue.” 

“I can think of other ways to settle,” Keith growls. 

 A hand on his arm stops him.

 “Easy there, Keith, drink some water.”

Keith looks at the hand.  Follows it to its wrist, then from wrist to arm, then arm all the way up to shoulder—

Shiro sits beside him on the bench, holding out a bottle.  Gingerly, Keith takes it, suddenly self-conscious of the way he drinks, plus the deliciously wicked bruise probably already forming across his nose. 

He puts the bottle down, wiping at the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“How long was I out for?” he croaks.

Shiro checks his watch.  “Three minutes, tops.”  He settles his palm against Keith’s forehead, swooping close to stare into Keith’s eyes, and if that spiel about your pupils dilating from desire is true then Keith’s pretty sure he has two black holes in his face right now.    

“Hm,” Shiro says.  The single sound travels the whole length of Keith’s spine.  “You don’t look concussed.  It might have been dehydration.”

“Yeah, Keith never hydrates enough,” says Lance, like it’s _Keith’s_ fault this whole thing happened.  “Listen, I’ve got to get back to the others now and do damage control, but thanks for carrying him up here, Shiro.  I’m serious about owing you a free session.”

“No problem.” Shiro dips his head in acknowledgement.

Meanwhile, Keith’s brain is short-circuiting at the implications of _carried._ Over the shoulder?  Bridal style?  How close had his face been to that _chest?_

He kind of wants to pass out again.

Lance leaves him to nurse these thoughts.  Surprisingly, Shiro doesn’t go with him, opting instead to stay beside Keith.  Running his fingers through his hair, he leans back against the wall and chuckles.

“What is it?” asks Keith.

“Tough break, for your first time,” says Shiro, smiling crookedly and nodding toward Keith’s presumably messed-up face.  “Guess you’d be hard-pressed to come back here again, huh?”

There are special corners of hell reserved for people like Keith. 

And right now, that corner looks a lot like an appointment booked for _Revolutions: 5:30-6:15,_ every Friday _._

“I—”  Keith clears his throat, but his voice still comes out hoarse.  A parched man dying of thirst.  “I think it’s worth another shot." 

**Author's Note:**

> check out [my other crack-ish fic where keith keeps hermit crabs and shiro is the well-meaning RA](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12013596)
> 
> tell me your own spin class horror stories on [tumblr](https://amillionsmiles.tumblr.com/)


End file.
